When my father starts playing his cards close to his chest, then it usual y means that someone's in for it, and no mistake.'
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'There won't be any repercussions for you, wil there, Andy? After all, the Secretary of State did appoint Cheshire to handle the enquiry.
Could you be disciplined for intervening?'
'I suppose it's possible, love, but I hardly think so. Al Cheshire's interview with Charles was downright sloppy work. All he succeeded in doing was getting him to give false evidence against Bob.'
Martin smiled at his fiancee across the table, over the debris of a meal which for once they had completed uninterrupted. 'Mario and Neil did good work though. I played their tape to Cheshire this afternoon, once he'd calmed down enough to listen to it. After a while he conceded that he'd assumed too much when he interviewed Charles, and left himself wide open to being conned.'
'What will he do next?'
'He's doing it already. He and Ericson are writing up their final report to the Lord Advocate. Once it's submitted, they're off home.'
'What do you think it'll say?
'I know from Cheshire what it'l say.' He grinned. 'I shouldn't really tell you, since you're acting for the accused, but I'll chance it.
They will report that even without Charles's admission, there's still a strong case to answer. The money exists; the sample signature exists; the note exists. Without using Jackie as a witness, the Crown could try to imply a connection between the Charleses - either him or Carole
- and your dad.'
Alex nodded. 'Fair enough, but we'l be able to introduce Charles's withdrawal of his statement to undermine that.'
'Agreed,' said Andy. 'Yet Cheshire and Ericson will suggest to Lord Archibald that the public interest requires that charges should be brought, and the matter put to the jury, if for no other reason than to try to answer one of the key questions.'
'What's that?'
'Whose is the money? The account is in Bob's name, beyond question. But without the Charles statement or another to replace it, it only becomes a bribe, and thus forfeit, if the jury says it is. If he's tried and acquitted, then I reckon that legal y, the money's his.'
She smiled. 'Just as well. He'll need it to pay our fees.
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'What's your gut feeling, though, Andy? Do you think the prosecution will still go ahead?'
Martin sighed. 'Yes, on reflection I think it will. The police service cannot afford to be seen to be sweeping anything under the carpet.
After al the publicity this business has had, if it was simply dropped, with no prosecution being brought against anyone, that's exactly what would be said.'
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The post lady was early on a Wednesday also, but Skinner was showered and shaved by seven fifteen, ready and waiting when he heard the loud metal ic bang, as the spring-loaded letter box cover snapped back into place. He was alone, having suggested to Pamela that she should spend the night in Leith, to be in promptly for her last day at the Fettes headquarters.
A bowl, empty save for traces of milk and one sad, solitary cornflake, and a half-finished mug of coffee lay on the table before him as he scanned the Scotsman for any reference to the charges laid against him less than twenty-four hours before. To his satisfaction there was none. Both Lord Archibald and Davie Pettigrew had promised him secrecy until the moment of his first court appearance, and they had been as good as their word.
Reading the newspaper, which led with a report of widespread demonstrations against a terrorist murder in Spain, he still felt the cold burning anger which had gripped him as Pettigrew had recited the formal charge, that he had corruptly accepted a payment of one hundred thousand pounds from a person then under investigation in respect of serious offences.
He felt no surprise at all, only an eager satisfaction, when he saw the Jiffy bag, with its handwritten address, a twin of the earlier package, except that this time, the postmark was sharp and legible.
He looked at it, and noted with interest that the padded envelope had been posted in Inverness on the day before. 'So he's taken them north,'
he said to himself.
He carried the parcel through to the kitchen, and opened it in exactly the same way in which he had unfastened the first, taking the same precautions. However, when the contents of the bag finally fell on to the counter it was, as he had expected, a second tape cassette.
Quickly he slid it into his hi-fi deck, and pressed the play button.
The pips broke the silence of the room. 'This is BBC Radio Four
. . .' the announcer began. The Monday news headlines included reports of half a million people on the streets of Bilbao in a mass demonstration, and of the relatively peaceful passage of Orange Marches in Ireland.
As the second story reached its conclusion the radio faded, and 244
Mark McGrath's voice, frightened but control ed, rose once more.
'Uncle Bob,' he shrilled. 'Mr Gilbert says I've to tell you some things.
I've to tell you that Tanya's here. She's too frightened to speak, and she cries all the time, but she's here.
'The next thing I've to say is that Mr Gilbert wants a mil ion pounds each forTanya and me, from the Guv'mint. He says it's to be paid into the bank that you know, the one in ...' The child paused as the noise of a low-flying aircraft threatened to drown out his voice:
'... in Gernzie.' He said the name awkwardly and with difficulty, as if he had needed coaching.
'It's to be paid in at exactly ten o'clock on Friday morning.' There was a pause: in the background Skinner could hear a murmur, and the sound of a second child crying. Mark went on. 'Mr Gilbert says I've to tell you that it's money he's owed by the Guv'mint, and that if you ask, you'll find out why. He says that if it isn't paid, you know what'l happen.'
'That is right, Mr Skinner.'The cold, flat voice broke in, suddenly and unexpectedly. 'You know, exactly. And afterwards, there wil be more.'
The detective stared at the tape as it went dead. Then he rewound it and searched through it, replaying the same section over and over again, putting a face to a voice, and making certain also that the thing which even he had believed unthinkable must after al be true.
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Skinner burst into the CID office like an avenging angel, sweeping past Pam with a nod and a wave, and beckoning Sammy Pye to fol ow.
'It's here, Andy,' he said to the surprised Martin, waving a cassette.
'The contact I've been expecting since Saturday. This has got to go to London too. Sammy, it's your turn for the Shuttle. I'll give you the address and contact name.
'Now both of you, listen to this.' He walked across to Martin's player and put the tape into the slot. Big Ben, fol owed by Mark McGrath's shrill young voice, filled the office.
'Did you hear?' he asked, when it was finished. 'The bank that I know. The one in Guernsey. I'd thought that it couldn't be possible, Andy, but it's true. The kidnapper and the courier are one and the same man. It has to be. None of that stuff has been in the public domain in any way.'
The Head of CID nodded as Skinner wrote Caroline Farmer's name and the Ml 5 office address on a pad on his desk. 'Has to be, but how about the rest of it?'
'Later, Andy, later.' He handed the note and the original of the tape to Pye. 'Get yourself a travel warrant and get going now, Sam.
Tell the lady I want a ful analysis as usual - with a voice analysis to confirm that the man at the end is the same as in the telephone cal to my house.
'Come on, shift!'
As the young constable bolted from the room, Skinner turned back to the Chief Superintendent. 'There's something else, Andy.' He picked up the telephone and cal ed Ruth McConnell. 'Ruthie,' he barked, without pleasantries. 'Find big Mcl henney, and get him down here.'
Martin looked at him, as he replaced the phone. There was a new edge to his friend, beyond the underlying confidence which Mitch Laidlaw had described to Alex, and which he had observed himself.
This was cold, hard and lethal, and he had seen it before.
'Mr Gilbert's made a mistake,' said Skinner. 'You heard the plane on that tape? It was a jet, a military aircraft, flying very low and flat out from the noise, and the duration. Yet it was after ten in the evening; gathering dusk if not dead of night.
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'There are very few places in Scotland where aircraft are allowed to fly at that height, and that late. Every one of those flights is logged and recorded in detail.' He paused, and smiled. 'When I saw Everard Bal iol on Sunday, he went on at some length about low-flying jets over his castle. He told me that the RAF agreed to move the route ten miles to the north. Even so, part of that training run probably still goes over his land.'
Martin started. 'You don't think Bal iol. ..'
Skinner laughed. 'Everard needs a mil ion pounds about three and a half thousand times less than you and I. That's how many of them he's got already. Besides, he's a man who thinks that all rapists and paedophiles should be castrated.'
He turned as Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney came into the room.
'I owe you and McGuire a big drink, Neil,' he said, 'but it'll have to wait. For now, I want you to get up to RAF Leuchars. Have them plot the route of every plane they had in the air on Monday night, and show you on the map where each one was at exactly fifty seconds past ten.
'Then, I want you to bring that map back here.'
'Very good, boss.'
As the Sergeant headed for the door, Skinner fol owed, beckoning to Martin. 'Now it's our turn, Andy, yours and mine. Let's leave my lovely Pamela in charge of CID, while you and I go for another consultation with Christabel Innes Dawson, QC.
'She'l enjoy meeting you again, and this time, you might too.'
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The old advocate looked at Martin. 'You have done well for yourself, young man,' she said. 'I'm wil ing to bet too that you've never again been as bad in the witness box as you were that day.'
'I hope not. Miss Dawson. You taught me a lesson. It's a long time ago, though. You have a remarkable memory.'
'Not at all, Chief Superintendent. Counsel rarely score such a comprehensive victory over police witnesses. When we do, it sticks in the mind.'
Skinner laughed. 'You didn't get your client off, though, did you?
Or had that detail slipped your mind?'
She frowned at him. 'No, it had not,' she snapped. 'You may well find yourself hoping that history does not repeat itself
'I do indeed. Miss Dawson. But let's wait and see whether we actual y get to court, shal we?' He went on. 'We're not here to talk to you about my case though. I want to search your memory of the trial in which you crucified poor Andy here.
'You see, although I was the chief police witness in that one, I didn't lead the investigation. Andy and I were drafted into help the burglary unit because of the sensitive nature of the enquiry, and because the Superintendent who ran it, Mr O'Riordan, was on the list for a back operation when it happened. He did the lead work. Al I really did was give evidence.'
The old lady nodded. 'I seem to recal that. I tried to chal enge you, but John was forced to concede that you were a competent witness.'
'Your client,' asked Skinner. 'What do you remember of him?
Didn't he have a German surname?'
'You are correct,' said Miss Dawson. 'His name was Heuer. That's H. E. U. E. R. His father was German, and his mother Scottish, but he took his mother's nationality. Even served in the British Army for a short while. Strange that he should have turned into a burglar.'
'Yes. He was caught breaking into the Polish Consul General's residence in Edinburgh, not far from our headquarters building. He didn't really have much of a defence, did he?'
'No,' the ancient silk agreed. 'But he insisted on pleading Not Guilty. He seemed to think that the charges would be dropped.
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Eventual y, when he agreed to make a statement, he gave the oddest evidence on his own behalf. He tried to say that he had entered the wrong house, by mistake, as if that would affect the relevance of the complaint.'
Skinner smiled. 'I remember hearing the first part of your examination. You did your best.'
She looked at him frostily. 'As I do always. But he was guilty, and the fact that he was armed added to the severity of John's sentence.
Eight years, as I recall.'
The detective produced a tape player from his case and placed it on the table. 'Think of that voice in the witness box,' he asked. 'Could this be him?'
He pressed the play button and the recording of the Saturday night cal to his cottage fil ed the consulting room. Miss Dawson sat up, sharply, her ears twitching like a mouse. 'Let me hear it again,' she commanded. Skinner rewound the tape, and played it once more.
'Oh yes,' said Christabel Innes Dawson QC. 'That's him all right.
That's Heuer. Peter Gilbert Heuer.'
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'I'd forgotten everything about him,' said Andy Martin, back in his office.
'So had I,' Skinner agreed. 'But why should either of us have remembered? Neither you nor I ever interviewed him: we only handled the support players. We were hauled off drugs work to do it, remember, and we were pissed off about it.
'But when Christabel came on the scene as my counsel, and we started to talk about it, I began to have an itch about something.
When I heard his voice on the tape this morning, insistent, angry, as it was in court, I was almost sure. If the old dear hadn't picked him from the first message, I'd have played her the other, but she knew him well, knew all sides of him.'
He looked at the case notes on Martin's desk. 'It reads oddly, doesn't it. He was caught in the Polish Consul's house, with a gun, and some of the Consulate silver in a bag, yet at first he wouldn't make any statement. All the notes say that he was arrogant and confident, yet silent as the grave, until the case was almost ready for trial.
'It reads as if he thought someone was going to spring him.